


Let's Get Out of Here

by cenotaphy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Caves, Dean Hates Witches, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Contrived Situations, First Kiss, Human Castiel, M/M, Way less angst than I normally put into a fic, Whump, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8478130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cenotaphy/pseuds/cenotaphy
Summary: Dean and a newly-human Castiel are on the hunt for a sea witch, but when a sudden turn of events leaves Castiel in a vulnerable position, Dean says what he has to in order to protect him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't set during any particular season; just assume that Cas has recently lost his angel status and is human.

The sea witch's cave is cold and damp, water pooling deeper and deeper on the uneven floor as they go farther in, and Dean wishes they were high above, at the top of the rocky cliff face looking down at the grey ocean, instead of here on the lip of it, following the dim tunnel with the tide slopping at their boots.

"I really hate witches," he grouses for what's probably the tenth time, lifting his flashlight briefly to scan the dripping walls, the rough and curving ceiling.

" _Witch_ is a misnomer," says Cas, resident nerdy angel. Well. Former nerdy angel. Dean throws a glance over his shoulder, aware that fondness is showing on his face and for once not bothering to hide it. Cas had gotten hit by a shower of spray as a large wave broke on one of the rocks at the cave's mouth, and his face is damp, his hair a little more unkempt than usual. The sight is causing all kinds of pleasant things to stir in the lower regions of Dean's body.

Cas is still rambling on. "Witches are mortals who have bought their way into power. She is—older, more primal. There's no guile in her, just...rage, and pain. She's reacting."

"Sea witch is what the lore books are calling her." _Invulnerable to ordinary weapons_ , the lore books had also said helpfully. "Hope your angel blade can handle her."

"Killing her isn't the only option, Dean. She is part of the land," says Cas. "This place was hers before it belonged to humans."

"Yeah, well, she shouldn't have gone on a friggin' murder spree," says Dean. In the past two weeks four people have disappeared off the beach, only to reappear days later, bloated with seawater, their eyes gouged out, kelp wrapped around their necks, barnacles clinging to their skin.

"The factory is disposing of its waste in the ocean," Cas argues obstinately. "You heard what the fisherman said, Dean—it's harmful, there's something wrong with it, it's _toxic_ —"

"So? It sucks, yeah, and once Sam figures out what the stuff is is we can nail 'em for it, but doesn't change the fact that we're dealing with a monster here. You don't see _me_ running around shooting people every time I get a whiff of car exhaust."

"You are unbelievable."

Dean relents. "Look, we'll try talking to her first, alright?" The truth is, he sees Cas's point. When your home is threatened, harmed, it's natural to lash out. And the sludge the factory was surreptitiously dumping into the bay _had_ been truly foul-looking. Well, they'd gotten a sample of the chemical byproducts that were to blame for it, and if Sam found anything in the lab he'd text. Not that there's reception down here.

"I think the chemicals from the plant are having a particularly toxic effect," says Cas, as if reading his thoughts. Dean's paused to pointlessly check his phone for bars again, and Cas brushes past him, the touch sending a small internal shiver through Dean. "There's no telling what effect they could be having on the surrounding environment—not just polluting it in the physical sense, but _tainting_ it, and on a sea witch, the living embodiment of the ocean—they would be even _more_ detrimental, they could drive her insane, they could—"

He stumbles a little on a loose rock, still talking.

"Hey, careful there, Rachel Carson," Dean chides. "Remember, you can drown now."

"Thank you," says Cas sarcastically. "I had forgotten."

Dean sighs. "It's not all bad, you know. Being human. You can taste food again."

"At the cost of being an asset in battle."

"Life isn't just about being 'an asset in battle', man." Dean shoves his phone back into his pocket. "You need to be reminded of the fun side of being human." He fidgets with his jacket for a moment, and adds, casually, "We should grab a drink after this."

"I would like that," says Cas earnestly, and Dean's heart leaps before Cas elaborates, "I always enjoy spending time with you and Sam."

"Great." Dean keeps his voice cheery. He claps Cas on the shoulder, moves past him to take point again. What he really wants to say is, _what about with just me_? Because that's what he'd been thinking, of course—him and Cas laughing in a bar, music jangling in the background, the alcohol smoky and warm, coiling slow and heavy in their throats. Cas reddening under the influence of it, eyes bright, hair disheveled, gaze somehow hesitant and exhilarated at once. Their knees bumping together under the table. He imagines it again, briefly, a lightning flicker of desire running down his spine, and tries to hide the disappointment on his face, even though his back is to Cas.

It's not like it was a flat-rejection. Cas hadn't stressed the _and Sam_ , and anyway, he probably has no idea what Dean was gunning for with the invitation. How could he? It's not like Dean's been expressive about—well, any of it. _Waiting for the right moment_ , he's been telling himself. _He's only just now human. Don't want to push him into anything he doesn't want_. That's what he tells himself, and they're noble reasons, but frankly, the truth is that Dean's afraid. Par for the course—he's smooth as anything when it comes to one-night stands, the exhilaration of a bar scene, the heady rush of a hookup without strings, but this, this thing that he actually _wants_ , that actually _matters_? He's terrified.

The flashlight gutters, the beam flickering off the slick rock walls. Dean shakes it impatiently, but it winks out and plunges them into darkness.

"Well, that's annoying," he mutters. There's no reply from Cas, and Dean swivels his head, pulling out his phone so he can use the light of the screen. "You okay?"

Cas is a dim figure in the phone's weak glow, but Dean can still tell that he's frowning. "Yes. But I miss being able to see without manmade light."

"Dude, you could see in the dark?"

"Not with these eyes, but yes."

And there it is again, the reminder that until recently Cas was a—a _being_ , a celestial being—power and glory and the sum total of eons and galaxies—and Dean is just—well, _human_ , and not that great at it, honestly, and there's no reason for Cas—or _anyone_ , really, but Cas in particular with his grace and his honesty and his goodness and the piercing quality of his gaze—to be interested.

"Dean?" The word, spoken softly, jerks Dean out of the reverie he hadn't realized he'd fallen into. Cas sounds despondent, which is all kinds of unfortunate, because Dean and Sam are still trying to work on undoing the damage of years, and convince Cas that they want him around for reasons other than his usefulness. Which means, among other things, not letting him think for one second that his not being mojoed up for a fight is a problem.

"Uh—don't worry about it, I brought extra batteries," he announces quickly. He reaches into his jacket pocket, feeling the weight of the batteries, and—

"Aw, shit." Dean pulls out the vial of contaminated water from the factory. "I thought I gave this to Sam." He curses mentally—this is exactly the kind of stupid mistake that hunters aren't supposed to make. "We were in such a hurry to get moving before the tide came in."

"Doesn't he need that to—"

"Yeah. Which means his trip to the lab is basically useless. He's probably realized he doesn't have it by now." Dean drops the vial back into his pocket and checks his phone again. "Bet he's been texting me and it hasn't come through."

"Should we turn back?"

Dean shrugs and opens the flashlight, feeling for the batteries in the dark. "Guess so. Maybe he's already up at the top, if he turned around and came back once he realized he didn't have the sample. We can still wrap this up today."

He replaces the battery cover and makes a pleased noise as the beam clicks on. "Much better." He skims the beam along the tunnel ahead. "Okay, spooky cave, we'll be right back—"

The walls suddenly flex as if alive. Dean stumbles as the pebbles beneath his feet shift and heave. He throws his arms up, fighting for balance, and looks around in alarm at the loud splash behind him. Cas has dropped to one knee, arms submerged up to the elbow.

Dean turns to give him a hand up, but he's only taken a single step when the water around Cas erupts and a dark, slender shape seizes his friend and drags him below the surface.

" _Cas_!"

Dean splashes forward, but there's nothing there anymore. He whirls desperately on the spot, scanning the cavern. No Cas, no bodies beneath the water's surface. Cas has vanished.

 _The sea witch_ , he thinks. _But where the fuck did she come from?_ The water they'd been splashing through had been only a few inches deep.

_And where did she go?_

He splashes deeper down the tunnel, but there's no sign of anyone. His heart is racing, adrenaline like a live wire in his chest. He's wrenchingly aware of the fragility of a human body, of how easily it's snuffed out, of all the ways there are for Cas to die in this tunnel. _Hang on, you son of a bitch_ , he thinks, and then remembers with a pang that Cas can't hear prayers anymore.

The ceiling is starting to get higher, the tunnel larger—it seems more like a cavern now. Abruptly it splits in two: a narrow corridor on the left, the current tugging in and out with a soft sucking sound, and a wider opening on the right.

"Fuck," Dean mutters, coming to a halt. He could leave and call Sam, but that will take time he doesn't have. On the other hand, he has no freaking idea where Cas is, and he can't just wander around these caves hoping to get lucky.

He's rocking on his heels, paralyzed by indecision, when a hoarse scream tears at the air.

"Cas!" It's a fragmented sound, bouncing off the walls and stalagmites, but the voice is unmistakable. Dean splashes forward. The right-side opening, he thinks it's coming from. He hopes.

The scream goes on and on, a long unbearable minute as Dean hurries along the tunnel, and then cuts off abruptly. He swears softly, aware of what the sudden silence could mean— _don't think about it don't think about it he's not_ —and keeps going. Above his head the ceiling has split open, faint white light coming through the gap in the high stone walls—the tunnel, or rather corridor now, must be running parallel to the base of the cliff now, part of him assesses dispassionately, rather than into it—and he pockets the flashlight in favor of his gun.

Another five minutes, and there's an uneven row of sharp-edged boulders poking up from the water. It's surprisingly menacing, like being confronted by a row of jagged teeth. Dean steps gingerly over them. The tunnel, or cavern, or whatever it is now, has opened up even more, and Dean steps around a misshapen column of wet grey stone, the water up nearly to his knees now, and sees them.

Ten feet away, Cas is slumped over a spur of rock like a sacrificial lamb. Hunched in front of him is a thin figure, all seaweed and water and hints of grey skin. _The sea witch_ , Dean thinks, his finger tensing on the trigger. Her hands are locked around Cas's wrists, holding them against the stone, and her face is pressed against the side of Cas's stomach.

"Cas!" Dean yells.

The sea witch lifts her head and looks at Dean with huge, pale eyes. Blood dribbles down her chin in dark rivulets. Seaweed tumbles from her scalp, a tangled cascade winding around her body and limbs, draped over the surrounding boulders, lying around her in dark green heaps that reach above the water's surface. He can smell it even from where he's standing. It stinks of salt and decay, the concentrated corpses and offal of a million tiny ocean creatures that lived and died in it, a penetrating stench that makes Dean's eyes water.

She peels back her rotting lips to bare multiple rows of pointed teeth at him. Her skin rolls like water; her tongue, sweeping out over her crimsoned teeth, is transparent, a dark wave that sweeps in and out of her mouth like a tide. 

Cas's eyes are open, but they're glassy and staring. Seaweed fills his mouth, trails in long green ropes down the side of his face and along the rock to where the witch's knees vanish into the water. His shirt has been torn open; Dean can see the heaving of his pale chest and, farther down, the bloody, messy wounds on his belly where the sea witch's teeth have shredded skin and flesh.

"Cas!"

Cas moves at that, one slow twitch before he raises his head. He makes a muffled noise as he catches sight of Dean, and his eyes seem sharpen slightly. He starts to struggle.

She throws—an arm? a loop of seaweed? Dean can't tell _what_ she's made of—around Cas's shoulders and yanks him off the rock spur. The former angel slumps in midair, held up by the water or the tangles of seaweed or both.

"Man," she hisses. "Foul man. Come to save the angel, have you?"

"Let him go," says Dean. He's surprised by how steady his voice and his arm are. Inwardly, he's shaking with rage. No one has the right to do that to Cas, to string him up like that, to—to _feed_ off him, or whatever she's doing, like that.

The sea-witch cackles, a raucous sound like the calling of gulls. "This one is fallen, isn't he? Oh yes, I can tell. Still shaped like an angel, but mortal through and through."

She stretches out a hand, trails it up Cas's belly and over his chest. Her fingernails are mussel shell fragments, long and black and pointed. She digs one into Cas's left nipple, breaking through the skin, and the Cas tips back his head and groans through the seaweed as a fresh trickle of blood slides down his ribs.

"I said _let him go_!" Dean's finger tightens on the trigger. He isn't at all sure that bullets will work on the hag, but the bite wounds in Cas's belly are bleeding freely and Dean needs to do something, _fast_.

"Why should I?" says the witch. She seems to grow taller as she speaks, as if she's not standing on the ground, or as if she doesn't have feet. A dark brown slug squirms out from the corner of her eye and oozes down her cheek, and the liquid tongue flicks out to catch it. She swallows, grins. Bile rises in Dean's throat.

"Because otherwise you're gonna be in a world of hurt," he snaps.

" _Hurt_?" she snarls. " _Hurt_? What world do you think I live in?" She draws herself up still farther, the ropes of seaweed shifting over her breasts and shoulders. Her skin is mottled, Dean sees; it's flaking away from her body, the pockmarks and blisters visible even in this dim light.

"Men have _tainted_ my home," she screams. " _Look_ at me!"

Dean tears his eyes away from the bony arm extended in his direction, with its coating of slime, its festering, circular sores.

"That wasn't me, and that wasn't Cas either," he says. "I'm sorry about the ocean, but your beef ain't with us."

She curls her lips in disgust. "My fight is with all your kind. You have destroyed what I love, human. I should return the favor. What do _you_ love? I'll rip it to shreds. What do you love? Tell me!"

In answer, Dean fires. Two times, at her center of mass. She jerks back, but the bullets pass through her as if she's made of water. (Which, maybe she is. Who knows.) Dean hears them impacting against the stone wall behind her.

She lunges, water crashing around her as she flies toward him. Dean flinches back, but she comes to a halt two feet away, towering over him now, a whirling pillar of water and limbs and sea kelp. She's dragged Cas with her, one hand clenched in his hair; he struggles in her grip, halfway in the water, mouth stretched obscenely wide around the mass of seaweed.

"What do you love, human?" Her eyes are slitted with hatred. "Your companion?" In a flash she has Cas's head cradled in her arms, one hand pressed against his chest, fingertips digging in over his heart.

"No!" Dean blurts, panicked.         

"Yes," she purrs, and her voice is like the cold curl of the tide coming in. Cas groans softly as her dagger-like nails press deeper.

There's nothing he can do; his bullets will pass straight through her, and he suspects charging at her would be similarly pointless. He lowers the gun, tries the only thing he can think of, desperation making his voice come out hard and even. "Bitch, I don't give a damn about him."

"Don't lie," she spits, but it sounds—uncertain, almost. _There's no guile in her_.

"Yeah, you heard me. I don't love him." Dean takes a careful breath, forcing himself not to look at Cas. "He's good to have around, but I wouldn't call it love, you know? Not the way you love your—home." He waves a hand vaguely. "The...ocean. And stuff."

She cocks her head. "Then why have you come in search of him?"

"I came to kill _you_ ," snaps Dean. "My job."

She studies him suspiciously. Her fingers ease ever so slightly, and Dean hears the faint whistle of Cas trying to suck in another breath. Hastily, he keeps going, jerking his chin at Cas, laying it on thick: "You think _he_ matters to me? He's a liability. Dead weight. Useless now that he's out of juice." The words are tearing at his throat on his way up, but he spits them out, desperate to keep his voice natural, derisive. His fingers are freezing— _all_ of him is freezing, actually. He slides his hand slowly into his pocket. "Him for the ocean? Hardly a fair trade."

She ripples in place, her body sinuous and grey. She's holding Cas just by the fabric of his coat now, her other arm outstretched to Dean, pointing her index finger with its long black nail. "Then what?" she breathes. "Tell me what you love, human."

"My car," says Dean, digging his fingers deeper into his pocket. "Uh. My brother. That's about it, sweetheart."

There's a beat as she thinks about this, the hateful snarl on her face slackening for a minute.

Then: "I don't believe you," she spits, and unhinges her jaw.

It falls open like the mouth of a shark, wide enough to swallow Cas whole, and he sees that she has not just a _few_ rows of teeth but _dozens_ , in concentric circles all the way down the black cavern of her throat. A behemoth now, massive and grey and bubbling with decay, she swings Cas around in front of her, lifts him in massive scaly hands, while above him the gnashing mouth gapes wider and wider—

Dean throws.

The vial from the waste pipe arcs through the air and Dean silently thanks Bobby for every game of catch as he watches it land far in the back of her throat, shattering on those razor teeth.

She screams, a hideous bubbling sound like the howl of a storm, and folds in on herself in a torrent of spray and seaweed. Cas drops through the air, face-first into the water. Dean leaps forward instinctively, but a low, powerful wave surges out from where the witch writhes and knocks him flat on his ass. The cavern walls are shaking and groaning, and a white vapor like steam or smoke is pouring out from the witch, obscuring her, making his eyes sting.

And then she's gone, the water rushing in to close the gap where she stood, her wails echoing through the tunnels, growing fainter. Dean scrambles up, thoroughly soaked now. Cas has struggled to his knees, but he's doubled over, head lowered, gagging on the seaweed.

"I gotcha, I gotcha," Dean mutters. Cas has managed to spit out the huge mass that had been gagging him, but the kelp, or whatever the fuck it is, is still trailing in a long coil from his mouth, and his limbs are tangled in more loops of the stuff. Dean gets a hand on Cas's shoulder, grips it tightly as the other man arches his back and spasms violently, making a terrible strangled sound as if he's trying to cough and breathe at the same time. "Breathe, Cas, just breathe through your nose."

Dean grabs a handful of the leafy vines—they're rough and rubbery, scratching his palms, and somehow _slimy_ , too—and yanks, expecting to pull the gag out easily. But the long green strands just ribbon out in his hand, and Dean's left pulling on a cable of seaweed that unspools endlessly from Cas's throat, like some fucked-up version of that classic magic scarf trick. Dean has to let go of Cas's shoulder, haul hand over hand on the rope of seaweed like he's dredging up an anchor, and more and _more_ just spills out from his friend's mouth while Cas keeps on making that horrific choking sound. Dean's just about to panic when the seaweed finally comes free, slipping out of Cas's mouth and into his hand. He looks down and his stomach turns over; the end of the seaweed cable is knotted into a huge ball, flecked with debris—a scrap of plastic, a crab claw, a fragment of a razor shell, a rusty fishhook.

Cas gasps in a single breath. It's an awful, rasping noise that's still miles better than the sound he had been making before.

"I gotcha," Dean soothes again. He drops the seaweed, not without noticing with a sick feeling that the last two feet or so are stained red, and hastily slips an arm around Cas, holding him up. He braces the other hand against his friend's heaving chest, avoiding the puncture wounds from the sea witch's nails. Cas is shivering, his teeth clicking together faintly as minute tremors run through his body.

"It's okay," Dean says, over and over again. "It's okay, it's okay."

Cas spits out a mouthful of something dark. "She's...she might not gone," he rasps. "She might still be here."

Dean looks around, but the cave is silent except for the rough lap of water against the walls. "I think she's out for the count, man," he says. "Come on, let's get you out of here before you get hypothermia." He helps Cas up, tentatively lets go of his shoulders, presses his fingers lightly against the wound in his friend's side. "Not that deep," he says in relief—it had looked a lot worse at first glance. "Can you walk?"

"I'm _fine_ ," mutters Cas, but when he takes a step he staggers a little, swaying on his feet.

Dean reaches forward in alarm.

"I can stand on my own," Cas snaps, batting away Dean's arm. He spins on his heel, water sloshing around the hem of his trench coat, and begins fussing with his clothes, his back to Dean.

Dean grimaces at no one in particular. The cold of the surrounding water is soaking into his bones and he's starting to shiver a little too. _Fucking witches_ , he thinks.

"Cas, you know I was lying, right? What I said to the witch."

"You said what you did to save my life," says Cas. "I'm not a _child_. I know how these things work."

"Yeah, but...you know I was _lying_ when I said it, right?" Dean inches closer, puts a tentative hand on Cas's sleeve.

"Obviously," says Cas. But his voice wobbles.

Dean sighs. "Cas, look at me, man."

Cas turns finally. His face is wet, his bangs slicked down over his forehead. His arms are wrapped around himself, holding his ripped shirt closed, his shoulders slumped and shaking. His eyes are huge and unhappy, flitting briefly to Dean and then away again.

At this range Dean can see the tremors in Cas's clenched lower jaw, the pale knobs of his curled fingers. They're standing close together, and it's easy for him to reach up and grip the former angel's chin. He dips his head and kisses Cas, carefully. It's not a particularly _good_ kiss—Cas's lips are freezing, tasting of seawater and rotting fish, and despite his best efforts Dean is clumsy with cold and with sudden nervousness.

He breaks away and leaves Cas staring at him. " _That's_ the truth," Dean says. Cas doesn't say a word. He just looks, his eyes enormous and round and dark, and for a long moment there's no sound except the ever-present dripping and sloshing of water. Dean thinks, with a sinking feeling, that this was probably a bad time to test his luck. Dammit, he'd been so determined to take it slow. To not push Cas. _So much for that._ He sighs and turns to go, his nerve draining away suddenly. "C'mon, let's get out of here, it's fucking freezing."

Cas reaches out and catches his arm. "Wait. It's—it's true for me too." He sounds a little breathless, the words coming out in a rush. "Dean, that's how I feel too."

Dean stops. Turns back to face Cas.

"Yeah?" he says, and it's amazing how a few words can completely change everything, how they can heal and electrify and unfurl everything, make doors open up inside him that he hadn't know were closed, hadn't known were _there_. "You—since—"

" _Years_ ," says Cas, wonderingly. "I thought you—I thought you didn't want—"

"Yeah," Dean mutters, disbelieving. "Same here."

"And—for years I—"

"Same," Dean says again, and goes in for another kiss. A proper one, long and deep and searching, and Cas still tastes like salt and seaweed, but damn, this time the son of a bitch kisses _back_ , mouth open, tongue pulling its weight, and _damn_ , it's fucking _amazing_. At least, it is until Cas accidentally bites down on Dean's lip because he's shivering so hard.

"Alright," Dean pants, breaking it off. "Alright, okay. Let's—" His legs are still freezing, but there's a sudden warmth opening up in his chest, like a small sun. They're both clutching at each other's sleeves. "Let's go—" He moves his hand down, slips it into Cas's cold one, laces their fingers together, squeezes gently until he feels Cas stop trembling. "Let's get out of here, Cas."

 


End file.
